Emily Rodda - The Third Door

She was very sincere, Keelin could feel it. But her words of praise, which should have warmed him, made him uneasy. For why had she said them at all?

‘I feel it was meant that we should meet,’ the harsh old voice whispered on. ‘I think perhaps it’s why I was born. I’ve betrayed Farr and Janna for you, Keelin. I haven’t told them all I know. I’ve kept some things secret, till your memory came back and you could speak for yourself.’

‘Petronelle—’ Keelin began, but she shook her head and put her fingers to his lips.

‘No, there’s more,’ she hissed. ‘We haven’t much time—I feel it! It’s been hard for me, very hard, to make myself deceive Farr and Janna. Farr’s a fine man, and Janna’s like my own child. I pray I’ve done right. Swear to me that whatever the future holds you’ll do nothing to harm them, Keelin! Swear to help Farr in his struggle. Swear to be loyal to him, to the death!’

She took her fingers away. Her strange eyes searched Keelin’s, filled with agonised appeal.

‘I swear it with all my heart,’ Keelin said without hesitation, and watched with wondering pity as the old woman’s face became slack with relief. She had asked so little of him. How could he ever regret such an oath? He had nothing but respect for Chieftain Farr, wanted nothing more than to help him.

Petronelle turned away and hurried to her cot. She threw a red dressing gown over her nightdress, smoothed her hair and thrust her feet into worn slippers.

‘I’m going to Farr and Janna, to tell them about the clink,’ she whispered, going to the door. ‘There’s no time to lose if I’m to catch them alone. Lock the door after me, Keelin. Open to no one but Janna, Farr or me. And Keelin—keep your bandage on! Whatever you may think, you need it!’

And with that, she was gone.

Keelin locked the door after her, feeling more confused and helpless than ever. He looked over his shoulder at his rumpled bed, suddenly yearning to lie down, draw the covers up to his chin, and sleep.

But another part of his mind was resisting—the part that was tired of confusion and helplessness, the part that was telling him it was time to be himself again, with memory or without it.

He walked to the window and drew back the curtain. The sky was clear, pale blue. He stood for a moment, taking great gulps of air that smelled of the sea. Then he left the window and moved past the silent fireplace to the chest in the corner.

He opened the chest and slowly dressed himself, pulling garments out one at a time. At last only the stick remained. He picked it up cautiously, but this time there was no disturbing flash of memory, only a feeling of rightness. He pushed it into his belt, and at once knew that was where it belonged.

Fully clothed for the first time in days, his feet unnaturally heavy in boots, he went to his chair and sat down. He was tired, but as he had hoped, dressing had made him feel less like an invalid and more like a person who could control his own destiny.

He put his hand over the little bag that hung around his neck. Now, he thought, I am ready to think about you. But before he could open the drawstring, there was a violent hammering on the door.

‘Open, Keelin!’ Farr shouted, his voice harsh with fear. ‘For pity’s sake, make haste! I need you!’

Ten minutes later, Keelin was rattling through the city in a carriage with Zak by his side. Jett was in front, driving the horses, but otherwise they were alone. It was so early that few people were on the streets and they sped along at a good pace.

‘The museum’s good to visit,’ Zak told his companion happily. ‘It’s very old. People always want to pull it down but Carryl won’t let them.’

Keelin smiled and nodded though he had barely heard what the child had said. His mind was back at the chieftain’s lodge where Petronelle, grim-faced, was labouring to save the lady Janna, who was lying still and pale like one dead.

‘If Petronelle hadn’t knocked on our door and roused me when she did it would have been too late!’ Farr had said through chattering teeth. ‘I woke to find Janna barely breathing. Poisoned, Keelin, like the clink in your room! As it is, there’s a chance. If anyone can save her, it’s Petronelle.’

Zak did not know his mother’s danger. Zak thought only that he was being given a great treat—an unexpected visit to the museum with Keelin.

‘I must get the boy away,’ Farr had muttered rapidly. ‘He mustn’t know what’s happened—not yet. He’ll suffer enough later if—if things don’t go well.’

He had swallowed and quickly turned his head away, and suddenly Keelin had been gripped by a vivid memory of someone else—someone he saw in his mind only as a quick flash. Someone tall and strong, with a great heart and powerful emotions he tried not to show. Frantically Keelin had groped after the image, trying to call it back, but it had gone.

‘Till I get to the bottom of this horror you’re the only one I can trust to go with Zak, Keelin, for you were almost a victim of the poisoner yourself,’ Farr had gone on after a moment. ‘If I send him alone with Jett he’ll know there’s something wrong. But if I tell him you want to see the museum …’

The carriage was slowing. And there before them was a deep, sparkling bay, edged by a low stone wall.

His interest roused in spite of his fears, Keelin drank in the sight. The bay was crowded with ships and surrounded by docks and warehouses. Even at this early hour, the decks of the ships were alive with movement. On the shore, pie-sellers and vendors of sweet buns, soup, coffee and tea were already at work, serving the gaudily clad customers clustering around their stalls.

Standing at the top of a small rise straight ahead, commanding a magnificent view of the bay, was a low, ramshackle building.

‘We’re here!’ cried Zak, as the carriage came to a stop. ‘Come on, Keelin! Carryl will be so glad to see us! She says more people should come to the museum. She says people don’t realise how important it is, and that’s why the council won’t vote for money to mend it. But Father and Mother understand. They say the museum should stay here, whatever Trader Manx and Trader Barron think.’

He glanced at Keelin anxiously, perhaps suddenly realising how shabby the museum was and fearing that the visitor might be disappointed.

‘I am looking forward to seeing inside,’ Keelin said heartily, though in truth the old building looked like a wreck to him. He could well understand why the traders whose warehouses stood around the bay might envy its prime position and see it as a blot on the landscape. It was hard to imagine that there would be anything much to see in such a place.

But it would be interesting to meet Carryl, beloved chieftain turned museum keeper. Interesting, too, to hear about the ‘important discovery’ Carryl had mentioned in her message to Farr. Wishing his legs were not quite so wobbly, Keelin followed Zak up the little hill, leaving Jett staring broodingly out to sea.

Wearing filthy overalls, heavy gloves and work boots, Carryl greeted her visitors in a small, dusty lobby that smelled vaguely of cooked vegetables. She was extremely tall and thin, with a beaky nose, a wide, humorous mouth, piercing blue eyes and white hair screwed into a tiny knot on the top of her head. Old as she was, her every movement seemed charged with energy. Beside her was a puny boy, a few years younger than Zak, whose features were miniature versions of hers, giving his small face a clownish look.

‘Pieter, take Zak into the workroom and find that tin of sweetcakes your mother sent,’ Carryl said, as the two boys eyed each other without speaking. ‘You can have one each. Go along!’